Poisoned Politics (7 page)

“Pain in the ass, if you ask me,” Larry said as he reached the tall trees' shade at last. He could feel a sunburn starting already on his rarely seen-the-sun skin. He spied an empty bench and sat before a group of sticky-fingered kids claimed it.

“Hey, it's July. High Season. They'll start heading home third week in August. Get the kids into school, back into jobs and routines. You know, family life. Oh…that's right. You didn't have any kids so you don't know about all that.”

Larry could hear the jibe in Spencer's voice. “You're right. Snotty-nosed little urchins crawling on my lap never appealed to me.”

Spencer laughed softly. “You're all brain and no heart, Larry. Just what we need. That reminds me, we may need some gossip-media help keeping the Wilson story on script. So get your contacts ready.”

“They're always ready,” Larry said, deliberately sending a big smile to the family group walking the Mall path in front of him.

six

Wednesday

“Hey, Casey!” I called
as I spotted the security guard leaving the Russell kitchen, coffee mug in hand. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure Molly. What's up?” he said as we met in the middle of the hallway.

I glanced toward the open doorway leading to the garden. “I wanted to run something by you. Why don't we step outside for a second. It's such a glorious morning.”

Casey's weathered face crinkled into a smile. “In other words, you need privacy to ask your question. Sure. Let's take some fresh air before the humidity rises.”

“Boy, I must need to work on my signals because you're starting to see right through me,” I joked as we headed through the French doors leading outside.

The well-manicured Russell garden was green and lush, thanks to the gardening crew's copious watering and Washington's occasional summer thunderstorm. The rose bushes were laden with blossoms and all sizes of blooms—crimson reds, snowflake whites, buttery yellows, and soft hues of lavender and pink. Other flowering shrubs abounded as did low-level border plants. I paused beside a gardenia bush with pearl white blooms, wide open. A delicate scent floated upward on the morning's humid air, teasing my nostrils. Edging the entire squared garden were tall, thick boxwood hedges. Green screens of privacy. Their distinctive scent bringing back memories of leisurely strolls through so many of Virginia's historic gardens.

“Reading people is part of my job, Molly,” Casey said, following me down the flagstone path. “What's on your mind?”

I paused for a second, deciding how best to broach the subject. “I'm sure you've heard me speak of my old friend, Samantha Calhoun. Senator Beauregard Calhoun's widow.”

“Yes, I recall your mentioning her. The two of you grew up together in Washington, I believe.”

“Yes, we did, and we tried to stay out of trouble in those days. The advice given to us was ‘Don't do anything you wouldn't want printed on the front page of the
Washington Post
.'” I gave in to the enticing scent below and leaned over to sniff a deep crimson rose's perfume.

Casey chuckled. “Words to live by, I'd say. Was that your father's advice?”

“Actually it was Eleanor MacKenzie's advice. She sort of watched over Samantha and me years ago, helping us stay out of trouble. We used to call her the Queen Mother.”

This time Casey laughed out loud. “I can see Mrs. MacKenzie in that role. She's a special lady even now. But why are we out here in the garden reminiscing, Molly?”

I turned and looked into Casey's intent dark gaze. “Because I'm afraid my friend Samantha is involved in something that could become fodder for lesser papers than the
Post
. Congressman Wilson chose to end his life at Samantha's home while she was out for the evening. She told me she returned early Sunday morning and found him dead on her sofa.”

Surprise flashed briefly through his eyes. “Hmmm. That's not good.”

“Tell me about it. Samantha and Wilson had been having an affair since the beginning of this year. And you know how Washington is. You can never keep those things secret for long. That's why I'm telling you, Casey. I know I can trust your discretion, but I wanted to ask if you'd overheard any gossip the other evening. About Samantha and Wilson, that is. I've already asked Aggie and Ryan. They heard bits and pieces.”

Casey examined his coffee mug. “As a matter of fact, I did. Of course, the comments were more innuendo and speculation, though. But one woman did mention she was convinced the Northern Virginia home mentioned in the newspaper was Samantha Calhoun's. So, I'm afraid the gossip is spreading.”

“
Damn
. Samantha and Wilson were ending their affair that very day. That's why Wilson was at Samantha's house that evening. He'd returned to gather some personal belongings. Why he chose to end his life there, we don't know. But Samantha called the police as soon as she found him.”

“Where was she when it happened? Did she tell you?”

“All she's said was that she was with an old friend and confidant in Washington.” I let my annoyed expression finish the sentence.

Casey looked over the rose bushes. “That's not good, either. She needs to establish her whereabouts for that evening. If she was still in the house while Wilson was there, well
…
it raises questions and invites speculation. You know that.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, exhaling an exasperated breath. “Believe me, I've been trying to convince her and so has her lawyer. Police are bound to become suspicious of her refusal to answer. That's where I'd like to ask you a favor, Casey.”

He arched one of his bushy brows. “If you're asking me to find out what the Fairfax County Police will do, I'm afraid I can't help you much. Most of my connections are here in D.C. But I do have an old friend from the Marines in the Fairfax Department, so I could ask him to update me if he learns anything. Sounds like this death is being handled as a suicide, so there shouldn't be anything unusual. Of course, Ms. Calhoun still needs to inform the police where she was that night so there won't be any problems.”

“Believe me, I'm working on her.” I paused for a second, debating what I was about to say next. “There is one more thing.”

Casey leveled his gaze on me. “And what would that be?”

“Yesterday morning, Samantha called me to her place early to see a video her surveillance camera recorded. The camera is directly over her front door, so it shows everyone who comes and leaves.”

“Did you know she had a surveillance system?”

“I knew she had a very reputable security company taking care of her properties, but I didn't know about the camera over the front door. The video showed Wilson entering the house that evening, then later on, it shows some guy who looked like a repairman come to the door. Wilson went outside with him, then returned to the house. We figured the guy had car or truck trouble. Anyway, no one comes in or leaves the house for the rest of the evening. Samantha arrived about six thirty a.m. But something else caught my attention before Wilson even arrived that evening.”

“What was that?”

“It was something I noticed when Samantha was reversing the video. A guy showed up in the late afternoon. A young guy. Looked to be in his late twenties. Blond, short hair, kind of spiked. Casually dressed but nice. He was carrying some kind of envelope. Samantha said people stop by frequently, asking her housekeeper for directions. But I watched and he never rang the doorbell or knocked. Instead, he just left the envelope beside the door. But he looked all around first, then looked straight up into the camera.”

I noticed that Casey's gaze had sharpened on me. “Did Samantha recognize him?”

“No, But she did get upset. When I asked if she'd ordered something to be delivered, she said no, but she knew who did.”

“Who?”

“Quentin Wilson. Apparently he used some Hill staffer with doctor connections to supply him with prescription sleeping pills and painkillers.” I watched Casey's eyes widen. “Samantha said Wilson took Vicodin whenever he was really agitated and the sleeping pills weren't enough.”

“Did Wilson ever tell Samantha the guy's name?”

“No, but she remembered Wilson said the guy worked at the Congressional Research Service.”

Casey stared out across the garden for a long minute. “And Ms. Calhoun told you about that video yesterday, which was Monday. That was a whole day after she discovered Wilson dead in her home. Did Ms. Calhoun tell the police about the video when they came to the house Sunday morning?”

“She told me she just remembered it yesterday. But she did say she called her lawyer. He was supposed to deliver the video to the police yesterday afternoon. And I can tell what you're thinking. This looks bad.”

“It sure does. Waiting more than a day to remember you have a surveillance camera is kind of hard to explain, especially when it contains video that would help the investigation. Considering she's also refused to say where she was that night, well
…
you can imagine how that looks to police.”

“Not good, I know.” I stared off into the rose bushes once more.

“Look, Molly, I'll call my friend and see what he's heard about the investigation into Wilson's death. It could be routine suicide follow-up. But I'll be sure to tell him this information you've discovered.”

“Well, I thought police should know about this guy. Otherwise they might see the video and think he's someone delivering an order. Meanwhile, I'll work on Samantha.”

I heard Casey's cell phone's ringtone cut through the familiar cicada background drone, and I backed away as he pulled out his phone. “I'll talk to you later,” he said quickly before answering.

I quickly retreated up the steps, summer morning heat rising around me. I could feel the dampness on my skin already. Expense spreadsheets were waiting for me in my office: Russell expenses and Brewster's rental properties. The thickening humidity chased me inside and I closed the French doors behind me, escaping into the air-conditioned cool. Maybe I'd make that next cup of morning coffee iced.

_____

I tabbed through the spreadsheet columns, entering expenses as the string quartet played softly from the speakers I'd set up on the bookcase behind me. A Bach sonata. Nothing like Bach to order the mind. Brewster's several rental properties were all occupied and yielding a profit after expenses. Always good news for property investors.

Clapton's guitar riffs momentarily overpowered Bach's brilliant counterpoint. Brilliance in another form. I grabbed my personal phone and recognized my cousin Nan's name and number flashing.

“Hey, how are you? Are we still on for this Saturday evening? What can I bring?” I asked as I leaned back in the contoured chair.

“Yes, we are, and food is all taken care of,” Nan said, her voice sounded like she was driving. “But we can always use more wine. There'll be twelve or so, depending if our neighbors can make it.”

“You got it. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“By the way, I was just at a client's home discussing the dinner Deb and I are arranging for her, and her television was on in the kitchen. A morning news show was interviewing Congressman Wilson's widow. She's in town to arrange a memorial service for her husband before his burial in Ohio, but she suddenly started talking about her husband's death and insisting it wasn't a suicide, and how she wants it investigated, and on and on like that.”

“
What!
When was this? Which channel?”

“I don't know because we weren't in the kitchen long enough to find out. Plus, I was trying to listen to the reporter with one ear and my client with the other. But it was about ten o'clock or so. Wilson's widow also made some reference to her husband's ‘companion' for the evening, as she put it. That's not good. I wondered how Samantha's reacting.”

That definitely wasn't good news. Now, not just Washington insiders but the general public would start to wonder about Wilson's companion and ask questions. I felt a little muscle squeeze inside, realizing Samantha's fifteen minutes of notoriety were about to begin. I had a sinking feeling that it would last a lot longer than fifteen minutes.

“I'll call her now and find out.
Damn
. What's up with that Wilson woman? Widows are supposed to be grieving or sorrowful or at least quiet. Hell, I barely opened my mouth after Dave's suicide, even with all those flash bulbs popping in my face.”

Old memories suddenly reappeared before my eyes, sharp and startling. Me, standing outside our Georgetown rowhouse, my arms around my two little girls, trying to weave a path to a waiting limousine. Silently shepherding my tearful children safely through the press gauntlet.
Speak?
I was still shell-shocked. Walking into that grisly scene, finding my young husband lying in a pool of his own blood and gore. Half of his head blown away. Gun still in his hand.
How could I speak. What could I say?
I still didn't understand. Not then, not now. Forgiveness, grudging and incomplete, had been slow in coming.

“Yeah, I thought it was kind of strange too. That's why I called. And don't worry. Deb and I aren't opening our mouths.”

“Thanks, Nan. I know I can trust you two.”

“That's pretty good for Washington,” Nan's tone turned lighter. “If you have two or three people you can trust in this city, that's doing pretty good. Talk to you later, I've got a call coming in.”

“See you Saturday.” I clicked off my cell and was about to call Samantha, then decided I'd take another stroll in the gardens outside. This conversation definitely required privacy. Besides, there was a gazebo in a garden corner that should have captured the afternoon shade by now.

I took my mug of iced coffee and headed down the hallway once more. The Russell mansion had settled into early afternoon quiet. There was no entertaining scheduled for this evening, so no caterers were bustling about the kitchen or setting up in the living and dining rooms. My high heels echoed in the tall-ceilinged rooms and hallway as I walked.

The heavy summer heat hit me in the face the moment I opened the glass door leading outside. I'd breached the air-conditioned cocoon. Stepping into the blazing sunshine's glare, I pressed Samantha's number on my phone and sped toward the gazebo, squinting.
Why hadn't I brought my sunglasses?

Samantha answered on the third ring as I reached the gazebo's hot shade. The wooden panels fairly radiated with the sun's heat. I started to sit but jumped up the moment my rear end encountered the super-heated wood. “Hey, how're you doing?” I asked.